The sprinklers were my alarm clock today, leaving the palm fronds dripping like paintbrushes. The mist that hangs in the already too saturated air lets the flowers thrive: plumbago, oleander, impatiens, begonias –Their names like a foreign language rolling off my tongue, without even adding the meanings gardeners of the old world would give them.
The sun is not quite up yet, though I can tell that it has cleared the horizon somewhere beyond my line of sight. The glowing is just-after-dawn light, no romantic rose tones or violet clouds to soften it. Mid-summer, past solstice, I prepare to do what all Houstonians who can do…escape. West, first, to find the mystique again of the islands, see if it will charm me from this slump in mind and spirit. Then north, add to the list of discovery a place I've never been, and try to see through the eyes of a twelve year old (and a dog) again. Then back to my beloved Lake Michigan. Back home.
The strange thing is there isn't that call to go this year. The existence of people makes the difference… the ones I knew are more distant, the ones I know now becoming closer. I suppose I could relate that to the sunrise, too, seeing things clearly. I've certainly done my share of complaining. Reality is this; there is beauty no matter where I look. I just need to accept it for what it is. So the ocean here is not blue with waves to surf and sugar sand beaches to walk on. It is still the sea. The seaweed that clutters the shore may look like detritus to the casual observer, but I know it is Sargasso grass, washed in from a meadow on the ocean. Full of life. I've seen the sea turtles come home here; I've seen the dolphins dance. I've seen the pelicans dive with graceful precision, smashing the image of awkward bird into a thousand tiny droplets shining on their wings. How can I not be home wherever there is the sea?
In two days, though, it will be the Pacific. My first ocean, and yes, my favorite. There are some fish friends waiting for me there, out in a crater below the surface. I'll tell them hello for you.
Thursday, June 23, 2005
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
lessons from my animal companions
It is perfectly quiet this morning. No electronic noises other than the fan in this computer and the constant whoosh of the a/c. I'm sitting in an armchair in the family room, the sun streaming in the window behind me and the cool touch of the air-conditioned air sliding down my bare arms like a blanket when rising. One cat lies on the footstool at my feet, the other in the chair next to me, and Scout is still sleeping up on my son's bed. It makes me smile every time I go wake them, to see them sharing a bunk. She knows she's not supposed to be there, but it is so soft, she risks it. She also knows no one will get mad at her. She's just too sweet.
Wouldn't that be lovely? To have the kind of personality that no one ever got mad at? To always be welcomed with physical touch, a hug, a scratch behind the ears, on a good day a full body rub, complete with tummy pats?
Yet, to always be the dog wouldn't work for me. Lately I've struggled with my sideline roles in relationships that are important to me. I've spent my life behind the scenes, in the center of the action, but often in charge of what goes on "onstage." Why now then? Why do I ponder the reality of it? I don't know.
Last night I met friends for dinner. Writer friends. We were in class together for about seven months, but as I've seen with many such classes, a bond was formed. Perhaps because we trusted each other with that creation more delicate even than children: our words in fledgling form, still undecided if we would let them fly or give them up. I feel protective of these people, knowing that as soon as we venture beyond this circle there are chinks in the wall, someone else to say, "no, this point of view doesn't work," or "your grammar is atrocious," or "this is not credible." Writers are supposed to be tough, I know, but not with everyone. We have to have heart, somewhere. Besides on the page. Don't we?
I've gotten out of the discipline of writing. I used to be able to say, when asked, that I spent about four hours every morning, writing. Words that I save from day to day to let me understand what it is around me that matters. And too often when I let the words free to someone else's eyes, they lose what it is I wrote them for. That happens, that is fiction, but when I start listening too much to the outside criticism and too little to the word whispers in my own head, then it stops being my creation. I have to get better at listening. To myself.
The cat at my feet is curled into a position where his little paws are crossed and curled toward his soft body, and he looks so very vulnerable… not the big brave lion who can chase squirrels from the yard and capture any bird he wants with his speed, but a kitten again, trusting that so long as he stays close to me, he is safe and can rest. It gives him the courage to be that other cat. I think that is a metaphor.
Wouldn't that be lovely? To have the kind of personality that no one ever got mad at? To always be welcomed with physical touch, a hug, a scratch behind the ears, on a good day a full body rub, complete with tummy pats?
Yet, to always be the dog wouldn't work for me. Lately I've struggled with my sideline roles in relationships that are important to me. I've spent my life behind the scenes, in the center of the action, but often in charge of what goes on "onstage." Why now then? Why do I ponder the reality of it? I don't know.
Last night I met friends for dinner. Writer friends. We were in class together for about seven months, but as I've seen with many such classes, a bond was formed. Perhaps because we trusted each other with that creation more delicate even than children: our words in fledgling form, still undecided if we would let them fly or give them up. I feel protective of these people, knowing that as soon as we venture beyond this circle there are chinks in the wall, someone else to say, "no, this point of view doesn't work," or "your grammar is atrocious," or "this is not credible." Writers are supposed to be tough, I know, but not with everyone. We have to have heart, somewhere. Besides on the page. Don't we?
I've gotten out of the discipline of writing. I used to be able to say, when asked, that I spent about four hours every morning, writing. Words that I save from day to day to let me understand what it is around me that matters. And too often when I let the words free to someone else's eyes, they lose what it is I wrote them for. That happens, that is fiction, but when I start listening too much to the outside criticism and too little to the word whispers in my own head, then it stops being my creation. I have to get better at listening. To myself.
The cat at my feet is curled into a position where his little paws are crossed and curled toward his soft body, and he looks so very vulnerable… not the big brave lion who can chase squirrels from the yard and capture any bird he wants with his speed, but a kitten again, trusting that so long as he stays close to me, he is safe and can rest. It gives him the courage to be that other cat. I think that is a metaphor.
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
plain old summer heat
I've been neglecting this journal. Not intentionally, but it has historically been where I've written just before sleep, and frankly, this week sleep is on no schedule at all. I'm almost over the terrible sinus infection that disabled me earlier, but the allergies and the HEAT are keeping me inside, and thus my bio rhythms are all screwed up. Blah blah blah.
I am missing my Midwest summers. They get hot too, just not so thickly hot as it is here, nor for as long. Cooling off becomes a challenge, a game of sorts, of putting fans in just the right windows, wetting palms and feet and inner elbows. Sleeping nude with no blankets, staying up late because it is too hot to sleep. Here, it is all… artificial. Just dial the a/c to the temp you want it to be and voila! There is no reason to be uncomfortable.
Today I'm making sun tea out on the patio, and have promised myself time in the sun on a raft in the water, just to remember it is summer. Maybe it's because I'm all tied up with this age thing… I have a birthday coming up, but I'm so damned nostalgic these days. I want to make out at a drive in movie and feel the thrill of just one button unbuttoned… remember that? When just –that much- would make you feel so turned on you could just melt? Or am I the only one who ever has those conversations in my head? The little games where you tell your self… if he does .. x…. then I will do … y…. and if he does… z… I willllll…
Sigh. Summer romance used to be something I enjoyed. Three of my most significant relationships began as summer romances, including my marriage. Something about the freedom to be yourself in the summer that made it more intense. Did you have summer romances? How did they get started?
I'm very far behind in my work, so I'm going to end this now. I'll try to get back in the habit. Soon. I promise.
I am missing my Midwest summers. They get hot too, just not so thickly hot as it is here, nor for as long. Cooling off becomes a challenge, a game of sorts, of putting fans in just the right windows, wetting palms and feet and inner elbows. Sleeping nude with no blankets, staying up late because it is too hot to sleep. Here, it is all… artificial. Just dial the a/c to the temp you want it to be and voila! There is no reason to be uncomfortable.
Today I'm making sun tea out on the patio, and have promised myself time in the sun on a raft in the water, just to remember it is summer. Maybe it's because I'm all tied up with this age thing… I have a birthday coming up, but I'm so damned nostalgic these days. I want to make out at a drive in movie and feel the thrill of just one button unbuttoned… remember that? When just –that much- would make you feel so turned on you could just melt? Or am I the only one who ever has those conversations in my head? The little games where you tell your self… if he does .. x…. then I will do … y…. and if he does… z… I willllll…
Sigh. Summer romance used to be something I enjoyed. Three of my most significant relationships began as summer romances, including my marriage. Something about the freedom to be yourself in the summer that made it more intense. Did you have summer romances? How did they get started?
I'm very far behind in my work, so I'm going to end this now. I'll try to get back in the habit. Soon. I promise.
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
a taste of a day
The sun is melting into the sky today, the light growing thin and colorless the higher it rises into the heat of the day. The houses and trees are in silhouette, no detail visible, except their shapes, and those in sharp contrast of black against the pale. There are no shades of gray at all it seems, only dark, and light.
The infection in my head runs the same course, either I am completely out, or completely awake, there is no gentle waking or quiet falling asleep. Coughs wrack, and I fear I will keep my partner awake. I know that I have time to rest later, and he doesn't, so I let the sunrise coax me from slumber and remember my routine.
In reward, a splash of rose on the horizon reminds me that it is when things seem most clear that we sometimes get surprised. There may be color to this day after all.
Even as I begin to close this page, insert the date and move to more productive projects, the morning dove and songbirds remind me to use all of my senses. Light or dark, hot or cool, those are easy. Melodious, fragrant? Harder. But the hardest, and thus most interesting, is how does the day taste? Today it is clouded with the salty taste in my head, diluted with fresh water, "natural" (from a bottle?), and soon coffee. Bitter, beautiful coffee. And now, it is full light and the day has arrived.
The infection in my head runs the same course, either I am completely out, or completely awake, there is no gentle waking or quiet falling asleep. Coughs wrack, and I fear I will keep my partner awake. I know that I have time to rest later, and he doesn't, so I let the sunrise coax me from slumber and remember my routine.
In reward, a splash of rose on the horizon reminds me that it is when things seem most clear that we sometimes get surprised. There may be color to this day after all.
Even as I begin to close this page, insert the date and move to more productive projects, the morning dove and songbirds remind me to use all of my senses. Light or dark, hot or cool, those are easy. Melodious, fragrant? Harder. But the hardest, and thus most interesting, is how does the day taste? Today it is clouded with the salty taste in my head, diluted with fresh water, "natural" (from a bottle?), and soon coffee. Bitter, beautiful coffee. And now, it is full light and the day has arrived.
Friday, June 10, 2005
unwell
I seem to have acquired ocd from hanging around people online. I've had no discipline to finish anything lately, except perhaps this last glass of cab for the night. Hmm.
Part of it is the heat. Sultry baking days. I am reminded that the summer here is like the dead of winter up north, dangerous to be out in, and interminable. Even the pool is over 90 degrees. That isn't refreshing.
It is all relative though. In Michigan, the air rarely gets to 90 and if the water gets into the seventies, we think of it as warm. I need to get back there. My toes curl at the thought of that soft sand.
I've had trouble staying awake today. The sinus infection seems to have control, and if not that then the drugs. Don't talk to me about mixing my wine with my drugs, I'm not driving.
People have been asking me what happened to Megg. I wish I could summon her on a moments notice, feed her a little alcohol and set her loose with her knives and poisons and oh yes those long nails of hers, I do. She's apparently still pissed though, because all I've seen of her in a while is this little fascination with Moths:
They were thick, smoke smudges flitting from the ceiling of the pantry, their casual flight long enough only to choose another place to land. I could close the door and pretend they weren’t there, but even the knowledge that they were there, feasting on the staples, breeding, hatching, multiplying, made me feel dirty. They had to go.
Yes yes, a long way to go. Insects and snakes seem to be what has Megg's attention right now, and sadly, not even the one eyed ones. That concerns me most of all.
Part of it is the heat. Sultry baking days. I am reminded that the summer here is like the dead of winter up north, dangerous to be out in, and interminable. Even the pool is over 90 degrees. That isn't refreshing.
It is all relative though. In Michigan, the air rarely gets to 90 and if the water gets into the seventies, we think of it as warm. I need to get back there. My toes curl at the thought of that soft sand.
I've had trouble staying awake today. The sinus infection seems to have control, and if not that then the drugs. Don't talk to me about mixing my wine with my drugs, I'm not driving.
People have been asking me what happened to Megg. I wish I could summon her on a moments notice, feed her a little alcohol and set her loose with her knives and poisons and oh yes those long nails of hers, I do. She's apparently still pissed though, because all I've seen of her in a while is this little fascination with Moths:
They were thick, smoke smudges flitting from the ceiling of the pantry, their casual flight long enough only to choose another place to land. I could close the door and pretend they weren’t there, but even the knowledge that they were there, feasting on the staples, breeding, hatching, multiplying, made me feel dirty. They had to go.
Yes yes, a long way to go. Insects and snakes seem to be what has Megg's attention right now, and sadly, not even the one eyed ones. That concerns me most of all.
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
expo observations
What do I say about book expo that hasn't already been detailed by the experts? I suppose that my perspective is as legitimate as anyone's… and as a "writer" perhaps I saw things that the publishers, agents, booksellers etc didn't see. I saw people.
Some that made an impression:
~~a younger writer… very good looking, who hadn't quite gotten the hang of the autographing scene, because he took time to talk to me about his book. The themes in it were disturbing, the kind that made me turn my head and look back into his eyes. "is it autobiographical?" I asked. "Not most of it." he replied. I will read it. If it's good, I'll even pimp it a little. He had beautiful eyes.
~~an older gentlemen, with a wonderful British accent, a few years older than me, or maybe not, maybe he was just significantly taller, who didn't "get" the joke of the promo items in the erotic writers booth that said "got sex?" I tried to explain about the whole "got milk?" phenomenon, but I suspect he was also a writer and had never paid any attention to American advertising. Either that or he wanted to keep me in conversation, as I'd picked up a handful of the promo items …I wanted to take them back to a writer friend who'll think the slogan is clever. I thought they were matches and hard candy suckers. It wasn't until I returned to the hotel that I actually looked at them… and discovered they were in fact brightly colored… and flavored? Condoms. I thought the gentleman was lingering a bit long…
~~peripheral connections. As a lawyer, wannabe writer and prospective publisher, I wasn't sure I was legitimate to attend the expo. The registration materials didn't have a specific category for me, so I could only lump myself in with the ubiquitous "industry professionals." It was only when I got email from Author's Guild offering a huge discount on the registration that I decided it was okay. I didn't need to worry. Seems that if you've ever read a book you qualify, despite the warnings that it is not open to the general public and that you should be prepared to present business cards to prove that you are, in fact, an industry professional. Reminded me of the advice a multi-published author gave to a crowd at a workshop regarding publishing houses that read only "agented" material. There is no restriction on who can be an agent. If they want only agented material, you print yourself some letterhead that says Your Name Literary Agency at the top and mail your manuscript. So if you are reading this, and interested in going to Expo next year, go. It's May 19 in DC. Lots of great entertainment, we saw both Billy Crystal and Bill Maher. hearing writers talk about their books, meeting some of them, learning about issues… great fun. No comments on how easy I am to entertain either.
~~as in all conventions, it is clear that the meat and potato meals take place at the private parties after hours and the meetings set up beyond the exhibition floor. The value to someone like me is in the contacts made, and the perspective, honing still what I want to be when I grow up. There were many moments when I wished I'd had a book to peddle, as the offerings don't seem that daunting. There were times when I wished I had YOUR book to peddle… yes, you. And you. There is a market. There is.
~~between Erin and I, we managed to pick up over 50 advance copies of books, many autographed by authors. When we surveyed the loot back in the hotel, we felt like any freshman at such a show. We hadn't considered how we were going to get them all home. Adding that we took the cheap though convoluted route, there was a lot of schlepping on trains and planes, and my weightlifting muscles were taxed beyond comfort. As I'm committed to actually commenting or otherwise responding to anything I read, it's going to be an interesting and eclectic summer.
I'll have to do another entry on New York outside expo, just because there are images I want to capture and there isn't a story to do it with yet. I'm sure there will be though.
Some that made an impression:
~~a younger writer… very good looking, who hadn't quite gotten the hang of the autographing scene, because he took time to talk to me about his book. The themes in it were disturbing, the kind that made me turn my head and look back into his eyes. "is it autobiographical?" I asked. "Not most of it." he replied. I will read it. If it's good, I'll even pimp it a little. He had beautiful eyes.
~~an older gentlemen, with a wonderful British accent, a few years older than me, or maybe not, maybe he was just significantly taller, who didn't "get" the joke of the promo items in the erotic writers booth that said "got sex?" I tried to explain about the whole "got milk?" phenomenon, but I suspect he was also a writer and had never paid any attention to American advertising. Either that or he wanted to keep me in conversation, as I'd picked up a handful of the promo items …I wanted to take them back to a writer friend who'll think the slogan is clever. I thought they were matches and hard candy suckers. It wasn't until I returned to the hotel that I actually looked at them… and discovered they were in fact brightly colored… and flavored? Condoms. I thought the gentleman was lingering a bit long…
~~peripheral connections. As a lawyer, wannabe writer and prospective publisher, I wasn't sure I was legitimate to attend the expo. The registration materials didn't have a specific category for me, so I could only lump myself in with the ubiquitous "industry professionals." It was only when I got email from Author's Guild offering a huge discount on the registration that I decided it was okay. I didn't need to worry. Seems that if you've ever read a book you qualify, despite the warnings that it is not open to the general public and that you should be prepared to present business cards to prove that you are, in fact, an industry professional. Reminded me of the advice a multi-published author gave to a crowd at a workshop regarding publishing houses that read only "agented" material. There is no restriction on who can be an agent. If they want only agented material, you print yourself some letterhead that says Your Name Literary Agency at the top and mail your manuscript. So if you are reading this, and interested in going to Expo next year, go. It's May 19 in DC. Lots of great entertainment, we saw both Billy Crystal and Bill Maher. hearing writers talk about their books, meeting some of them, learning about issues… great fun. No comments on how easy I am to entertain either.
~~as in all conventions, it is clear that the meat and potato meals take place at the private parties after hours and the meetings set up beyond the exhibition floor. The value to someone like me is in the contacts made, and the perspective, honing still what I want to be when I grow up. There were many moments when I wished I'd had a book to peddle, as the offerings don't seem that daunting. There were times when I wished I had YOUR book to peddle… yes, you. And you. There is a market. There is.
~~between Erin and I, we managed to pick up over 50 advance copies of books, many autographed by authors. When we surveyed the loot back in the hotel, we felt like any freshman at such a show. We hadn't considered how we were going to get them all home. Adding that we took the cheap though convoluted route, there was a lot of schlepping on trains and planes, and my weightlifting muscles were taxed beyond comfort. As I'm committed to actually commenting or otherwise responding to anything I read, it's going to be an interesting and eclectic summer.
I'll have to do another entry on New York outside expo, just because there are images I want to capture and there isn't a story to do it with yet. I'm sure there will be though.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)